Maggie, a Girl of the Streets eBook

In a hall of irregular shape sat Pete and Maggie drinking
beer. A submissive orchestra dictated to by a
spectacled man with frowsy hair and a dress suit,
industriously followed the bobs of his head and the
waves of his baton. A ballad singer, in a dress
of flaming scarlet, sang in the inevitable voice of
brass. When she vanished, men seated at the
tables near the front applauded loudly, pounding the
polished wood with their beer glasses. She returned
attired in less gown, and sang again. She received
another enthusiastic encore. She reappeared in
still less gown and danced. The deafening rumble
of glasses and clapping of hands that followed her
exit indicated an overwhelming desire to have her come
on for the fourth time, but the curiosity of the audience
was not gratified.

Maggie was pale. From her eyes had been plucked
all look of self-reliance. She leaned with a
dependent air toward her companion. She was
timid, as if fearing his anger or displeasure.
She seemed to beseech tenderness of him.

Pete’s air of distinguished valor had grown
upon him until it threatened stupendous dimensions.
He was infinitely gracious to the girl. It
was apparent to her that his condescension was a marvel.

He could appear to strut even while sitting still
and he showed that he was a lion of lordly characteristics
by the air with which he spat.

With Maggie gazing at him wonderingly, he took pride
in commanding the waiters who were, however, indifferent
or deaf.

He leaned back and critically regarded the person
of a girl with a straw-colored wig who upon the stage
was flinging her heels in somewhat awkward imitation
of a well-known danseuse.

At times Maggie told Pete long confidential tales
of her former home life, dwelling upon the escapades
of the other members of the family and the difficulties
she had to combat in order to obtain a degree of comfort.
He responded in tones of philanthropy. He pressed
her arm with an air of reassuring proprietorship.

“Dey was damn jays,” he said, denouncing
the mother and brother.

The sound of the music which, by the efforts of the
frowsy-headed leader, drifted to her ears through
the smoke-filled atmosphere, made the girl dream.
She thought of her former Rum Alley environment and
turned to regard Pete’s strong protecting fists.
She thought of the collar and cuff manufactory and
the eternal moan of the proprietor: “What
een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for?
Play? No, py damn.” She contemplated
Pete’s man-subduing eyes and noted that wealth
and prosperity was indicated by his clothes.
She imagined a future, rose-tinted, because of its
distance from all that she previously had experienced.

As to the present she perceived only vague reasons
to be miserable. Her life was Pete’s and
she considered him worthy of the charge. She
would be disturbed by no particular apprehensions,
so long as Pete adored her as he now said he did.
She did not feel like a bad woman. To her knowledge
she had never seen any better.